


Servatis a Periculum

by jade-1459 (Jade)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Community: samdean_otp, Dark, Future Fic, M/M, Superpowered Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade/pseuds/jade-1459
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has changed in ways Dean had never expected. After the near end of the world, Supernatural creatures and events were recognized by the world at large, and Hunting became a religious calling. But after so many years things have gotten lost or been forgotten. Dean had watched the changes and slowly withdrew from the world and society, becoming less involved and less aware of the shifting currents of change. But when he has a prophetic dream about the Devil’s Gate being opened, Dean finds himself coming out of the shadows and making himself known to the world again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Servatis a Periculum

**Author's Note:**

> Angelicfoodcake made some amazing art for this story as part of the Mini-Bang at samdean_otp(lj)

  
[   
](http://s692.photobucket.com/albums/vv283/jade_1459/?action=view&current=ServatisAPericulumbanner.png)   


  
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[](http://s692.photobucket.com/albums/vv283/jade_1459/?action=view&current=exerpt1.jpg)

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__

Dean.

He could hear Sam calling for him on the wind. But Dean couldn’t find the strength in himself to turn and go back to his brother. He was drawn deeper into the dream, deeper into the twisting landscape of trees and grass and brush. Wind was tearing through the branches above his head, trees swaying in a dizzying way.

And while the wind never touched him, Dean still had to put his hand out to the nearest tree to steady himself as he continued walking between the trunks. They were getting thinner, more space between them as he moved on. It was the little details that told him he was coming to the end of all the trees and then he’d see what the dream was all about.

  
_Dean!_   


The urgency in Sam’s voice carried over the wind, but Dean was drawn too deep into the dream to back out now. He would only get the one chance, the one look to see what was coming. One dream was all he ever got. Just one chance to make sure things didn’t go all to Hell.

Looking up, Dean glanced at the leaves on the trees around him, trying to figure out what season it was. The grass was tall between the trees, a yellow green in colour. But the leaves were still green, only a few yellow ones here and there. And then Dean was walking out from between the trees into a large field.

The grass was even taller here. Or Dean thought it was. The wind still forced most of the grass nearly back to the ground bent, but the stalks were long and wild. Looking around, Dean felt a vague familiarity with the place in which he stood. Like he had been there a lifetime ago. And there was a good chance that he had.

  
_Dean!_   


Sam’s voice was distant now that he had reached his destination, and Dean knew this was where he was meant to be. There was a certainty that settled into his bones as Dean took a look around. This was the place, this was the time, and he was meant to be here. Wherever _here_ happened to be.

Creeping forward, Dean noticed a few house-like shapes scattered about. Except that they were miniature, a single room in size, compared to the real thing. It seemed strange. But Dean had long ago given up trying to figure out these dreams. Sometimes the information was literal, and other times what he needed to know was covered in symbolism and vague mimicry.

Dean figured this dream was of the second category. All symbolic in nature with its miniature homes and twisting black skies. It would be just his luck to have to decipher a dream to avert a lethal supernatural act. Dean walked further into the field, cataloguing every detail – from the shade of green in the grass to the position of the hand full of stars and constellations he could pick out between the seething black clouds of...smoke?

Just when he realized that clouds should not be seething, nor rolling or twisting like a bag full of snakes, Dean tripped on something protruding from the ground. It was a partially sunken gravestone. Looking up again, Dean looked for one miniature house that wasn’t really a house, but a fucking crypt, hoping he wouldn’t find it standing in the sea of bent grass.

But there it was. The earth dug out around its base and cleared of vegetative growth so that it stood there in the field untouched by time and nature. A coiling black shadow of smoke laced with rivers of red stood next to it, holding a gun Dean would know no matter what shape it took.

That was the Devil’s Gate. And there was a demon holding the Colt.

  
****  


:::

  


Dean jerked awake.

“Finally,” Sam breathed out next to him.

Running his hands over his face, Dean tried to wipe off the cold sweat that covered his skin. Sam hovered anxiously beside the bed, hand partly outstretched to reach for him, watching Dean with concern and more than a little agitation. “I’m fine, Sam,” he tried to reassure Sam.

Sam snorted at him and jerked away to pace the room. “Dude, you were thrashing about for nearly an hour before you came out of that dream.” Dean watched his brother as he waited for his heart to stop trying to crawl up his throat. Sam was always frustrated when he had one of these dreams, and Dean could understand why. A lifetime and more ago, Dean had been the one pacing the room when Sam had a vision. Payback was fair play they used to say. “What was it this time?” Sam finally asked. He had his hands jammed deep in his pockets, and Dean knew it was a reminder for Sam to keep his hands to himself. Touching Dean now, even if Sam only wanted to comfort him, would only make the moment worse for both of them.

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean replied, “Devil’s Gate.” He was always more than a little disoriented after a dream. The urge to get moving was always so strong after he woke up. It usually took a few minutes to convince his feet that he needed to shower and pack before they could hit the open road.

Sam was silent, thinking through all the implications of one of Dean’s dreams and the Devil’s Gate. “Something is going to try and open it?” Sam asked, his voice a little dull and far away. It was the voice he used when he was still thinking through the possibilities and trying to put puzzle pieces together.

“A demon,” Dean told him, pushing himself out of bed. “I’ll explain more in the car. I need a shower and then we need to hit the road.”

  
****  


:::

  


They were back on the road as soon as Dean was out of the shower and dressed.  At a little past four in the morning, the roads were deserted. Not even late night travelers were out, and it was too early for the early commuters to have gotten a start to their day.

Sam sat in the passenger seat, watching the dim scenery that passed by the window. Dean knew Sam was only giving him a little space to collect his thoughts and figure out which way they were going before he started interrogating Dean about his dream. Every detail was important, and any detail could mean the difference between success and disaster as they had found out once already.   
  
The prophetic dreams had taken some getting used to at the beginning. And it had taken Castiel nearly two years to figure out why they started happening generations after the end of the War. Worship was a way to gather power – however unwilling the recipient might be. And once Chuck’s books had been discovered and made into doctrine, people had slowly begun to worship and pray to Dean like some kind of mythical figure. They prayed he would keep them safe, and that manifested itself as prophetic dreams warning him of potential supernatural disasters.

Making a turn, Dean took the back roads out of town and across country. With the speed he was driving, Dean didn’t want to be pulled over by an Enforcer. Even with his Hunting License he would still be detained for several hours filling out forms and answering awkward questions about Sam’s lack of substance. At worst, they would figure out that Sam wasn’t just suffering from a lack of substance, but suffering from a lack of a living body. Dean would be fined, detained, while an Enforcer brought in a psychic to lay Sam to rest and then brought to an Order Justice Official when the psychic failed.

The last thing Dean needed was to be brought up on charges of _maleficium_.

“You’re driving away from the Devil’s Gate,” Sam noted.

Tightening his hold on the steering wheel, Dean kept his attention on the road. Even after so many years, Dean still wanted to reach across the seat and touch Sam, reassure them both with physical contact. “We need to contact Castiel,” Dean replied. He couldn’t touch his brother, because Sam didn’t have a body. And that was Dean’s fault. “They already had the Colt in the dream. If we can head them off before they even get their hands on the Key to the Gate, we won’t have to go back there.”

“They already had the Colt?” Sam inquired. And the interrogation began, drawing Dean’s attention away from the itch in his fingers to feel Sam solid against him.

“Yeah,” Dean breathed. “They had the Colt and they already had the Devil’s Gate dug out.”

“How long do we have?” Sam asked. He’d moved closer to the door on his side of the car, Dean noted. Turning to face him, but still keeping space between them.

“Just when summer starts to turn into fall,” Dean answered. It was the best he could figure in timing. He never knew exactly when this shit was going to happen, but sometimes he could guess just by the scenery in the dreams. Focusing on the dream was a distraction.

Sam was silent for so long, Dean had to glance over to make sure his brother hadn’t winked out. It was an annoying habit he had. It made Dean want to reach out and touch him all over again. It had been so long since he’d been able to touch his brother that he almost forgot what it felt like. Lifetimes had passed since Dean could clearly remember what Sam smelt like.

Dean just gripped the steering wheel more tightly. It was his fault after all that Sam was the way he was. Nothing was going to change that – though Dean was searching for a way to give him back a body.

  
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**Nine days after the world didn’t end:**   
  
  
Dean isn’t sure how it happened, but he knows why.

Sam was dead and gone, and so was Ellen. After the necessities of salting and burning their dead had been taken care of, he and Jo had found an empty shell of a building and gotten drunk.

Dean remembers what they did. Remembers how, for just a few minutes he’d felt alive and almost whole. Except all the details had been wrong. Her hands were too small, her body too soft, her kiss had tasted wrong.   
  
For just a few moments he’d felt alive. But now he was stuffed full of guilt. Because he hadn’t really wanted her and Dean was pretty sure Jo knew that.

Worse, he was certain she knew exactly who he’d wished she had been.

She’d stayed the night with him though. So she couldn’t be completely disgusted that he’d wished she’d been Sam instead.

  
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They reached a small settlement two days later.

It was a Hunters Haven.

There was a Blessed Church in the middle of town. There were libraries and weapon shops close by. Medical facilities and boarding homes were available to any Hunter passing through. And there were usually two or three psychics or practitioners living within the settlement limits.

Dean hated Havens.

Ever since the Order learned how to properly ward, the Havens had become places Dean avoided if possible. The wards acted almost like a sensory deprivation chamber – like he literally couldn’t see or hear while he was in the limits. But sometimes they were a necessary evil to be endured to get what he needed: rest, supplies, information, and human contact.

The forced separation from Sam just made it worse. Having Sam cut away from him was more unpleasant than how the wards made him feel physically. Dean was always anxious when he didn’t have his brother’s incorporeal self close by, to talk to or banter with or just enjoy a silence. There were only a few things Dean couldn’t live without, and Sam topped the list.

“I’m going to see if I can track Castiel from here,” Sam told him as they approached the town limits.

“Be careful,” Dean cautioned. “There are traps...”

Sam snorted at him before replying. “I know, Dean. I’ll be careful to avoid them.”

There were always traps set up around a warded town to capture supernatural creatures and beings that ventured too close. Those traps couldn’t tell the difference between a malevolent ghost and a bound spirit. The last time Sam had gotten stuck in one of those traps it had nearly drained Dean to the breaking point to free him.

“I’ll meet you outside the limits tomorrow,” Sam continued. “Call me back if something happens. And Dean?” Sam turned to face him in the car, face serious, but there was a hint of a smile under the frown. “Try not to upset the Officials and Priests in this place, okay?”

Dean laughed and forced a smile for Sam. “I’ll do my best.”

And then Sam was gone; winked out of the car and away from Dean’s senses.

He was alone.

Dean hated Havens.   
  


  
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The Haven was like any other one he had visited over the years: dull and sparsely furnished.

Dean was greeted by one of the Attendants when he entered and shown to a room.

“I need to speak with the head Priest here,” Dean told the Attendant. He dropped his duffle onto the cot in his little cell away from home and started pulling out a few items. He wasn’t planning to stay long, and he wasn’t pulling anything of consequence out of his bag. If he could manage it, he was going to leave come first light.

“Of course,” the Attendant replied. “I will inform Father Jefferson of your wish.”

With that, the boy turned and left Dean to his unpacking.

He fully expected to be kept waiting until after supper was served. Hunters didn’t demand audiences with the head Priest of a Haven. Hunters were the lowest order of worker. They did the jobs no one else wanted to do because it had to be done. They were actually below garbage men and sewer workers in the social order of things. And unless a Hunter had ambition to climb the ranks and train to become an Official or a Scholar, they were little better than old dog shit stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

It was for that reason Dean pulled out his journal and sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair at the desk. He had never stopped journaling his hunting experiences. It had been driven into him the same way hand-to-hand fighting had been – with a sharp smack upside of the head when he forgot or “forgot” to do it.

He’d just started detailing the dream he’d had about the Devil’s Gate and everything he knew when the Attendant came huffing back to his little cell with its tiny warded window and its creeping walls.

“Father Jefferson will see you now, sir,” the boy told him, face flushed.

Dean looked up and hid his surprise. It wouldn’t do him any good to be surprised or overly confident at this point. The Priest could have any number of reasons for granting him an audience so quickly – from a Hunt gone wrong close by, to the fact that Sam had ridden in with him to the edge of town.

“Then let’s not keep him waiting,” Dean said, closing his journal and tucking it into one of the pockets inside of his jacket.

  


  
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Father Jefferson was an elderly man seated behind a rich desk. He didn’t look up right away when Dean entered the room, but continued writing something on his piece of paper. It was probably nothing but an excuse to keep him waiting.

When the Priest put down his pen and finally looked up to Dean, he said, “My Attendant tells me you are Dean W. Harvelle.”

“That’s me,” Dean answered, a cocky smile tugging at his lips.

Father Jefferson huffed and looked down at his papers again, shuffling a few around. “I wasn’t aware that the Harvelle women named their sons with the family name,” he commented.

Dean just shrugged in reply. Because it was true. The Harvelle women did not give their sons the family name; instead they were given their father’s last names. And even the men who married into the Harvelle family didn’t get to take it; their wives wouldn’t even change their own surnames no matter what the husband might want. The Harvelle name was given from mother to daughter – or in the case of three separate generations from grandmother to granddaughter.

Dean still couldn’t remember clearly what Jo’s argument against giving their daughter his name had been, but he’d relented in the end.

The Priest huffed at him again and pulled out an envelope from the scattered papers on his desk and handed it over to Dean. “Whatever the reason, there’s a message that’s been waiting for you in all the Havens for the last several months.”

Dean accepted the envelope with a frown. There were very few people in the world that would bother to leave him messages at the Havens, never mind _all_ of the Havens apparently. Dean was tearing open the letter when Jefferson added, “The man who gave men that letter told me you were born under a different name and I would never believe him if he told me who you really were.”

And that narrowed the list of possibilities to one.

Castiel.

The fallen angel was the only one who would say something like that. He was the only one stupid enough to still believe in the human abilities of devotion and loyalty before greed and suspicion.

  


[](http://s692.photobucket.com/albums/vv283/jade_1459/?action=view&current=Casnote.jpg)

  
Crumpling the letter closed Dean looked up at the Priest behind his dark wood desk. “Where is he?” Dean asked in a tone that left a chill in the air.

Father Jefferson arched an eyebrow at him and leaned back at his desk. “We’ve heard tales,” he said to Dean, fingers crossing on his stomach. “There have always been tales, you understand. And the hints your friend left when he dropped off that letter leave me suspicious.”

“Of course they do,” Dean snapped. “Ask your damn question and then tell me where I can find him.”

“The Brother hinted that you were Dean Winchester reborn,” Jefferson stated, voice even and empty.

But Dean was watching his expression, and there was guarded hope – wild hope – burning in his eyes. It made Dean want to curse and shout. It wasn’t the first time over the generations that someone had guessed or questioned his existence, and it probably wouldn’t be the last time. But this was the first time that someone had actually _hoped_ to be right.

Something was horribly wrong with the world for a man to hope for him to be alive again. Either that or it was political. It was probably political, but Dean hadn’t been paying much attention to the Order lately. In truth, he hadn’t been paying attention to the Order for longer than was right.

“I’m not Dean Winchester reborn,” Dean told the Priest. Looking at the crumpled message in his hand, he muttered, “I would have had to actually die between when you found those stupid books and now to be reborn.”

Jefferson coughed, his face gone deathly pale, when Dean looked back to the older man. A man who was actually so much younger than him if they were counting years lived. But that guarded wild hope in his eyes was burning brighter and it made Dean uneasy to see it. Someone shouldn’t have that much faith in a mythical figure.

“The cabin,” Jefferson finally spoke. “He said you could find him at the cabin.”

This time Dean did curse.

The cabin was three days in the wrong direction.

“Stupid fucking angel,” Dean grumbled. “I need to be resupplied – ammunition, salt, charms, holy water, the whole kit and caboodle.”

“You’ll have everything you need,” the Priest told him, rising from his seat on unsteady legs. “Whatever you need, whatever we have to offer, it’s yours for the taking.”

Dean backed up a single step, skin crawling, feet itching to get moving now that he knew where Castiel was. But more than that, he wanted to get away from the Priest. Something really was wrong with the world. And Dean didn’t like the way he was looking at him, as though his prayers had finally been answered.

God had disappeared long before he’d been born. And Castiel – for all his searching – still hadn’t found him.

“I’m just a man, Father,” Dean reasoned. “A very old man, but still just a man.”

“Of course,” Jefferson replied. “ _A man like any other man, but greater than all the men. He will return and you will know him by his Mark and his Deeds. He will bring glory unto the world._ ” The Priest licked his lips and steadied himself with a hand on his antique desk before he added, “When the time comes, Dean Winchester, I hope you will know that our Haven will be loyal to any cause.”

Dean nodded, clutching Castiel’s message like a life line. He could feel the wards around the Church pulling at him, pushing in at his own defences. And this man’s faith and belief were like a physical force in the room with them. Whatever he thought was coming, Dean believed him when he offered up his Haven to Dean’s use – no matter what use that might be.

“I believe you, Father.”

It was all Dean could say in the face of that much faith.

 

 

 

  
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**Three days before the world didn’t end:**

Cinnamon and coffee.

Dean was drowning in the taste of Sam’s kiss, the feel of Sam’s hands on his face, the press of Sam’s body against his own. Nothing in Dean’s life had felt as right as this. Letting his brother kiss him, and kissing him back.

Dean could have died happy in that moment. Sam’s sharp cheek bone and square jaw under one hand, the slight dent in Sam’s skull behind his ear where he kept his pen when he was researching under Dean’s finger tips. And Sam’s mouth against his own, stealing the breath from his lungs.

When the kiss broke Sam smiled at him and Dean could only stare into his brother’s face with something that felt like awe. “Sammy,” Dean breathed out, unwilling to let Sam go, but unable to form the words to keep his brother with him.

“When I get back,” Sam promised. “We’ll figure this out then.”

And then Sam leaned back in and pressed a quick kiss to Dean’s lips, adding, “No regrets, Dean.”

  
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Dean hit the edge of town just as the sun peeked over the horizon.

Whatever Castiel had told the Priest during their meetings – and Dean was now certain that there had been more than one meeting – had gone a long way to solidifying the man’s faith and belief in him. He had been resupplied in record time – ammunition, amulets, wards, charms, thrice blessed Holy Water, weapons, salt – had all been carefully arranged and packed. Father Jefferson and the Attendant who’d shown him to his little cell had seen him off.

Dean felt better for leaving. He hated Havens because of how they separated him from Sam. But the Priest’s faith and the Attendant’s devotion made him uneasy. The last time someone had believed in him that hard a hundred thousand people had been led to their deaths. Whatever was coming, Dean had enough blood on his hands. He didn’t want to add more.

A mile from the settlement’s limits Dean pulled his beat up car on to the shoulder.

Calling Sam back to him was simple. His brother didn’t have a choice in answering a summons from Dean. When he had raised Sam’s spirit from the grave, he’d bound Sam to him – a spell Bobby had nearly spit nails over giving to him. Unless Dean released Sam’s spirit, his brother was metaphysically bound to Dean’s soul – which wasn’t going anywhere ever thanks to that stupid Curse.

Closing his eyes, Dean concentrated on that metaphysical bond. Imagined it like a tether line between his soul and Sam’s spirit, and gave it a sharp tug.

And just like that Sam winked back into existence in the passenger seat.

“Dean,” Sam growled. “Do you know how close I was to getting the information we needed?”

Dean laughed; Sam’s annoyance hadn’t changed over the years. He still got frustrated at Dean for calling an end to his play date with information. “He’s at the cabin,” Dean told him, smiling for the first time in what felt like weeks but had probably been months. Sam was the only person left in the world who could make him smile anymore.

“I wasn’t looking for Castiel,” Sam snapped, balling his fists in his lap. It had taken Sam a long time to get used to the fact he couldn’t actually touch anything. And pounding his fists on the dash was useless since his hands just passed right through it. “I found a lead on the demon who might be trying for the Gate!”

“He’s already got the Colt,” Dean sighed.

“The – What?”

Reaching into his pocket, Dean smoothed out the crumpled paper out on the dash for Sam to read.

“Shit,” his brother hissed. “Dean, that’s not good.”

“I know,” Dean replied, shoving the note back into his pocket. “We’re going to go see what Castiel has to say.”

  


  
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Dean missed cell phones.

He missed the internet and e-mails.

He missed how easy it was to stay in contact with people in the world of _Before_.

Not that staying in contact with Castiel had ever been easy. Even before cell phones and e-mails had gone the way of the Dodo, Castiel had been notoriously difficult to keep in contact with, never mind keep track of. And now that the world had been tossed back into a time of handwritten letters and message runners, it was even more difficult to do.

Bouncing along the tire ruts that led up to the cabin Dean seethed behind the wheel.

They had been on the road for four days. Heavy rains slowing their progress more than Dean would have liked. The fact that the way to the cabin had nearly been washed out and was only getting firmer than soft putty did not improve his mood any.

“Dean, we still need to figure out how the demon is planning to get past all the traps and wards you put up around the Devil’s Gate,” Sam insisted.  It was a circular argument that Dean had heard over and over for the last four days.

“Breeding,” Dean snapped back, gunning the engine to get through a particularly wide puddle. “When Yellow Eyes wanted through the old Trap he fed demon-tainted blood to kids. That’s what’s happening now.”

“But there haven’t been any reports of strange deaths or abandoned babies,” Sam countered.

It was a frustrating argument. But Dean knew he was right, even if it hadn’t exactly been in the dream, it had been there metaphorically. “Sam, Yellow Eyes was building his little army of special kids in a time when psychics were barely tolerated on the fringes of society as a bunch of crazies. Look at the world we’re living in now.” Dean manoeuvred the car around a tight turn and started up the driveway to the cabin. “Hunting is recognized as a legal occupation and a Holy Calling in nearly every organized religion in the world. Psychics are trained as soon as they’re found. No one is going to see the difference between a psychic and a kid with demon blood.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Sam stressed. “Azazel was working on higher orders. He wasn’t your run of the mill demon. The Order has made a study of the demons left in the world. Their names and tendencies, and none of them have shown even the slightest interest in opening the Devil’s Gate. There are a lot fewer demons left in the world, Dean,” Sam pointed out reasonably. “They have power bases and make as little trouble as they possibly can to keep from having a Hunt called on them. They have worshipers! Why would they risk all that to open the Devil’s Gate and suddenly have to share all that power?”

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened with his frustrations. Sam’s logic had enough basis in fact and reality. It made no sense that a demon was trying to open the Devil’s Gate. Not after everything they had done to keep from having a Hunt called on them. Dean _knew_ that. Knew it the same way Sam did. They had been there when three quarters of the demon population in the entire world had just suddenly died.

“We’ll talk to Cas and see what he thinks,” Dean said. He was tired of arguing, tired of traveling, just plain tired right down to his bones. Someone somewhere wanted to unleash hell on Earth. It didn’t really matter who was trying to do it, only that it was going to happen unless Dean could stop it.

The cabin was a monstrous affair. Far larger than anything Dean had actually needed, but it also served as his personal library of sorts. Most of the rooms in the house were filled with books he had collected or stolen over the years. Most of them were original copies, or the only copies left in the world. It was also one of the very few places in the world where Dean felt safe, or as safe as he could get.

There were wards and protections placed all around the property. They kept demons, ghosts, and all manner of supernatural creatures away from the place. They also acted like a barrier against unwanted human guests as well.

Castiel was sitting on the front steps waiting for Dean as they pulled up to the cabin.

Castiel hadn’t changed much in the years. He’d grown out his hair, cut it all off, and went back to Jimmy’s haircut more times than Dean could count. He hadn’t aged a day since he took his vessel. He was a little more travel-worn than the last time Dean had seen him – nearly fifty or so years ago. But it wasn’t that surprising. Castiel always looked travel-worn and weary. He was the last Angel left on Earth, recognized and acknowledged by the Churches around the world. He was always traveling.

“What happened?” Dean demanded as soon as he got out of the car. Sam followed behind him as they approached the fallen angel.

Castiel stood up, brushing dirt from the seat of his jeans. “It’s good to see you too, Dean,” was the angel’s reply.

It had only taken him several generations to finally grasp sarcasm and when it was best put to use. Popping a hole in Dean’s anger or pushing his buttons had become one of Castiel’s favourite pastimes while he was learning.

“Fine,” Dean snapped. “Wow, Cas, it’s been a while, man! You haven’t changed a bit!” Dean smiled wide, more a feral bearing of the teeth. “Now tell me what happened to the Colt.”

Castiel ignored Dean and turned his attention to Sam with a vaguely amused smile. “Sam, your continued existence is both disturbing and delightful. I trust the years have treated you well.”

Sam looked to Dean before turning his attention back to Castiel. Dean would have hit both of them if it would have done him any good. Castiel still had a skeletal structure made of steel and Sam was incorporeal, and Dean wasn’t going to act like a two year old throwing a tantrum for attention. Castiel worked on his own clock, but he had never failed to give Dean the information he needed in a timely manner. That was, of course, if Dean didn’t count the one time with the Pied Piper faerie thing that had been skinning and eating little kids in what was left of Utah.

“About as well as can be expected,” Sam replied. And Dean turned his back on the both of them, heading up to the cabin to go inside and settle in with his anger and frustration. He was pretty sure there was a turn of the century scotch in the kitchen.

“I got stuck watching Dean slowly dig his way out of an avalanche,” Sam told Castiel as they followed Dean into the cabin. “Took him nearly nine weeks to dig himself free of the snow.”

“Was that the avalanche that buried most of the Jonas Settlement three years ago?” Castiel asked conversationally.

Dean was already in the kitchen searching through the cupboards for the scotch. If they were going to reminisce about all the times Dean had died and come back to life in the last half century, Dean needed the drink. The avalanche had been the worst of them all, dying from the crushing wounds under a hundred feet of snow, only to come back to his body fully healed but still stuck under all that snow had nearly done Dean in. It had reminded him too much of waking up in his own coffin after he came back from Hell.

The worst part had been digging six or seven inches and then dying from lack of oxygen – over and over and over again. Sam hadn’t been able to help, except to point Dean in the right direction every time he came back and to encourage him to keep going.

Sam and Castiel kept chatting away in the kitchen while Dean poured himself a drink and took inventory of the food supplies in the kitchen.

The ancient refrigerator was running off the generator out back. And when he opened the door, he found it stocked with food. Castiel had lain in provisions while he’d waited for Dean to arrive.

“I had a visit from an Order Official,” Castiel announced.

The comment was so out of place from the small talk Sam and Castiel had been having that Dean turned away from the fridge and its tempting contents to look at the angel sitting at the small two-seater table in the kitchen. He was watching Dean for his reaction.

“Why?” Dean asked. Even if the world at large viewed Castiel as a wandering Holy Man, the Order didn’t involve itself in anything but its own politics and power base.

“To learn, he said.” Castiel didn’t look convinced of his own words. “He seemed sincere at the time.”

“What did he want to learn?” Sam asked.

“Of the past,” Castiel answered. “He wished to know of the _Before Time_. How hunters were organized, what kind of hunts they did. He wanted to know of the events that led up to the Confrontation.”

“He was a history buff,” Dean supplied. “You are one of the world’s leading historical experts. But what does the Official have to do with the missing Colt?”

“I believe he took the Colt from my possession.”

There was a deafening silence in the room after that statement. Of all the possible people or beings to take the Colt, Dean hadn’t really considered an Official from the Order. Officials were trained to spot possessions and warded against being possessed. And while they were a power hungry, greedy bunch of sons of bitches, Dean still couldn’t picture one of them taking the Colt to open the Devil’s Gate.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Dean finally said into the silence. “Officials are Hunters who went political or power hungry. Why would one of them want to open the Gate?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel answered. “But the last time the Colt was in my keeping was when I was visited by the Official. It was safe before his arrival, but I noticed it missing some time after his departure.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down the Official,” Sam put in.

“It was some years ago,” Castiel added.

Dean sputtered at that. “The Colt has been missing for _years_ and you only just decided to get in contact with me about it?”

“I only just noticed its absence,” Castiel said defensively. “You trusted a number of objects in my keeping, Dean. I do not inventory them on a weekly schedule.”

“Why did you notice it missing now?” Sam asked, curious. He was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs. Dean still didn’t understand why Sam bothered. He couldn’t actually sit on the chair, and in cases like this one, it meant that Dean had to lean against the counter.

Castiel looked between the two of them, confusion clouding his expression. “Have you not been following what has been happening in the Order?” he asked finally.

Dean shared a look with Sam. Neither of them had been paying much attention to the outside world lately. Dean especially. He’d grown tired of the world and the Order and everything. “Not really,” Dean admitted. It wasn’t the first time Dean had taken a vacation from noticing reality beyond the hunt and just getting through the day. It was, however, the first time his lapse in attention seemed to concern Castiel.

Castiel, who had once told him, that sometimes it was okay to simply step back from everything and wait for the world to become new again. Now the former angel was staring at him with disbelief and horror.

“There is a storm brewing in the Order,” Castiel told them. “The Order is dividing. There are hints and veiled threats among the Officials on different sides. Soon, I fear that the challenges will become open and hostile.”

Sam frowned and asked, “What are they divided about?”

“The Gospels,” Castiel said. “They debate the validity of their word. And they debate the possibility that Dean will not return to them. Another faction, primarily Christian based Officials, is hinting that they believe Dean was an anti-Christ set to oppose the son of God.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dean said.

“You prevented Heaven on Earth,” Castiel pointed out.

“I also prevented Hell on Earth if things had swung the other way,” Dean countered.

“That was a really hot topic when they found the books,” Sam added, more to himself. Dean watched his brother think it through. Being incorporeal meant that Sam’s impressive brain had been put to a real test. He couldn’t record information any more, and had to remember everything he thought was important.  “When the Order first formed, there was nearly a war over just what exactly Dean had done. A handful of bombings and some riots and it was the Church who stepped in and said that Dean had given humanity the choice to make the world either/or.”

Castiel nodded. Dean remembered it had been Cas who had stepped in and actually spoken to the freaking Pope about it. He had no idea what Castiel had actually said but whatever it was had brought a change in the world’s religious community. Castiel had become a kind of Holy figure to the world, and eventually the Order had developed – making hunting a recognized occupation and a Holy Calling.

“I have not been able to uncover the source of the division in the Order,” Castiel continued. “I have spoken with many Officials and Attendants and followers but they all simply take sides. They do not know where the divisions began or how they came about.”

Sam nodded and Dean frowned. He remembered the almost war that had threatened after they found Chuck’s books – all of them, including one book he hadn’t told Dean or Sam about, making vague predictions for the future. That discovery had been very sobering.

“What does all of this have to do with the Colt?” Dean broke into the silence.

Castiel rubbed tiredly at his face and sucked in a deep breath before answering. “I have been speaking to many people. And while they couldn’t explain how the divisions started in the Order, what many of them told me about the Orders plans disturbed me.”

Dean and Sam waited quietly for Castiel to get the rest out. After so many years of being the only constants in each other’s existence, Dean had learned when Castiel needed a few moments to gather himself before he disclosed information he found upsetting or distasteful.

“They want to study demons,” he finally told them. “With the remaining demons in the world having strong and solid power bases, they plan to capture a weaker demon as it escapes from Hell.”

  
****  


:::

  


  
“You need to go back to the Haven,” Sam said.

Dean threw himself on to the uncomfortable cot in his room. He’d learned the hard way that leaving a mattress in a place that he went years without visiting was only asking for trouble. The cot didn’t have any stuffing for mice to move into. “Why?” he demanded. “Why do I need to go back to that place? Sam, I need to be figuring out a way to stop an Official who got their hands on a human tainted with demon blood from opening the Devil’s Gate. Not going backwards and having a spiritual debate with a Priest!”

Sam huffed and wandered closer to Dean on the cot and sat on the floor Indian style. “Because you’re going after an Official with a human tainted by demon blood. Hell, the Official might even be the one tainted by the blood. You need the support, Dean.” Sam watched him with an earnest expression and the little crease between his eyebrows that meant he was trying to beat Dean’s resistance down with Sam-logic.

“Sam,” Dean sighed tiredly, staring up at the ceiling. “What will I do if I go back to the Haven? I can’t just announce that I’m Dean Winchester reborn. They aren’t going to believe it.”

“But you said that the Priest already did believe,” Sam pointed out. “Dean, you’re going to need the help. This is more than just a physical fight. If you stop this Official, what’s going to stop the next one who tries to summon one?”

“But how is one Priest going to help with that?” Dean asked. “Sam, he isn’t exactly in the prime of his life.”

“That’s not the point, though,” Sam tried to explain. “He’s a leader. He already has people who trust him, are loyal to him. He can act as a way into the Order for you. And he can get you the support you need to face the hunt at the Devil’s Gate.”

They were quiet for a few moments. Sam staring off into space, and Dean was trying to find a way around having to out himself to Father Jefferson. Castiel was snoring in the living room downstairs, having left the argument of what to do next for Sam to finish.

Dean had spent nearly every moment after the war keeping a low profile or disappearing. Jo had told him he was hiding. And Dean had argued at the time, but as the years had passed he’d slowly come to the realization Jo had been right. He was hiding. He was still hiding.

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Sam said softly into the quiet. “I know... I know that after the war things didn’t turn out how you thought they would. It was hard, I know. But the world is different now, Dean. These aren’t the same people. A lot of them will follow you if you would just lead them.”

“The last time I led people didn’t turn out so well, Sammy,” Dean pointed out. “Killed you and almost all of the people who followed me died two weeks later.” Dean sat up on the cot and turned to face his brother sitting on the floor. “If I go back to the Haven and tell them exactly who I am, it’ll probably just start another war. I’ll be hunted by the Order for heresy and maleficium.”

“War is inevitable at this point, Dean,” Sam sighed. “At least if you come out some of them will start fighting for the right reasons.” Sam reached out to Dean.

Most of the time when Sam touched him all Dean felt was a chill where his brother’s hand passed through him. But sometimes, on only a handful of occasions, Sam’s touch had substance. It was never much – like the memory of an embrace or touch – but it always served to renew Dean’s secret hope of one day giving Sam back his body.

The gentle press of Sam’s hand on his thigh did a lot more this time. Dean could feel that feeble hope rise in his heart still – even after all those years.  Sam’s cool touch also filled Dean with determination. After so long as nothing more than a spirit, Sam still had faith in him. And if he could still believe in Dean, Dean didn’t have any choice. He couldn’t fail Sam. Not a second time around.

If it meant war, he could win.

He had to win.

With the Order’s resources Dean would be one step closer to getting Sam back his body, and maybe even breaking his own curse and finding something like peace.

Watching the play of emotions on Sam’s face, Dean reached out to him. His hand found Sam’s cheek, and for a moment – just a heartbeat in time – Dean could feel Sam under his hand.

And then the moment was gone. Sam’s hand fell through Dean’s thigh, and Dean’s hand passed through Sam’s face.

“Tomorrow,” Dean told him. “We’ll head back to the Haven tomorrow.”

  


  
****  


:::

  


It was actually two days before they left the cabin for the Haven.

Castiel had insisted on knowing what Dean planned to do when he got there. How he meant to convince a town full of devout followers of the Order that he was Dean Winchester. And when he heard Dean’s plan, he tossed it out the window and helped him come up with a better one.

Well, it wasn’t much better than the one Dean and Sam had originally come up with, but it had more flair. It built on the foundation Castiel had been carefully laying for generations. As the only Angel left on the planet, a recognized Brother by the Order, Castiel had been cultivating the leaders of the Havens and some of the Officials for the moment when Dean stepped out of the shadows.

He had even found a way to explain Sam and his lack of a body.

So a little more than a week after leaving the Haven, Dean pulled up to an open field outside of the settlement and stared at the slightly overcast sky. Sam was next to him, hands thrust into pockets of clothing he imagined himself in each day. Time hadn’t changed Sam clothing choice of jeans and comfortable shirts.

Though, sometimes he did forget to imagine a pair of shoes or socks.

“The charm Cas gave you should work, Dean,” Sam tried to reassure him.

Dean shrugged and crossed his arms, moving his attention from the sky to the field. “I nearly lost you the last time I tried to force you through a warding,” Dean pointed out. “I don’t know what I’ll do if the charm doesn’t work,” he admitted.

“You’ll do what you’ve always done, Dean,” Sam told him. “You’ll keep going.”

“No,” Dean finally said. He turned to face Sam and added, “If this plan doesn’t work the world can go to hell.”

  


  
****  


:::

  


  
**Two generations after the world didn’t end:**

“We never did figure things out,” Sam said softly.

Dean looked up from the dingy carpet under his feet. Sam was standing a few feet away, arms crossed awkwardly over his chest like he was trying to hold himself. Dean knew how he felt. It took everything in him to keep from doing the same.

“I can’t touch you,” Dean finally said. He watched Sam’s face drop, felt his own heart sink under the truth of those words. After everything Dean had done to get Sam back, they couldn’t touch. “I don’t know what’s worse – the wanting or the remembering,” Dean admitted.

“We’ll figure it out, Dean,” Sam told him. Dean was pretty sure Sam meant it to be reassuring, but it felt more like desperation.

There were still goose bumps where Sam’ hand had passed through Dean’s shoulder.

 

  
****  


:::

  


  


  
  
  


  
[](http://s692.photobucket.com/albums/vv283/jade_1459/?action=view&current=ServatisAPericulum.jpg)

 

 

[](http://s692.photobucket.com/albums/vv283/jade_1459/?action=view&current=Exerpt4.jpg)

  
****  


:::

  


 

Dean had been shown to Father Jefferson’s private apartments.

They were modestly furnished – a small table with three chairs under a window, a love seat facing a small fireplace, two tall book shelves filled with various religious texts and hunting manuals. There was nothing luxuriant about Father Jefferson’s living quarters. Aside from the books on the shelves, Dean was pretty sure that most of the furnishing had been donated from his flock.

Dean was standing by the table, looking out the window to the back gardens of the Church. There were Attendants working in the vegetable patch, singing their devotions as they moved between the plants.

“Dean,” Sam called from behind him.

Dean spun about to face his brother. Castiel’s charm had worked. Sam hadn’t winked out when they had crossed into the warded settlement. And even in the Haven, Sam was as solid has he had been since Dean had raised and it was taking minimal effort to keep him there.

“He’s coming,” Sam told him.

Dean nodded and took his place at the book shelf. He could hear Father Jefferson’s footsteps as they came down the hall way. “Time to fade a little, Sammy,” Dean said, keeping his attention on the books he was pretending to examine.

Father Jefferson had all three volumes on Boogie Men. Dean had noticed that his settlement had a lot of children. It made Dean wonder if there had been a lot of trouble with child-monsters in the area. It wasn’t uncommon for different kinds of supernatural creatures to prey on a settlement together.

The door opened behind Dean and he listened as Father Jefferson entered the room before turning to greet the man. He had an Attendant with him. The younger man stopped just behind the Priest when the other man hesitated a few steps into the room.

“Mr. Harvelle,” Father Jefferson said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again so soon.”

Dean’s gaze flicked to the Attendant and back to Father Jefferson before he answered. “I was in the area and thought I would stop by to continue our earlier conversation.” Dean smiled charmingly to the Priest and the Attendant. He didn’t know any other way to hint that he wanted the kid gone from the room to the Priest.

But the other man seemed to understand not just Dean’s glance but his words as well. Because he turned to the Attendant and dismissed him. “Mr. Harvelle and I will be fine for the moment, Thomas. I’ll call you if we need anything.”

When the Attendant left them, Father Jefferson closed the door behind the boy and turned back to Dean. Waving him over to the table he said, “Please, have a seat.”

Dean pulled out a chair and waited for Father Jefferson to take one for himself before he sat down. “You have a lot of problems with Boogie Men?” Dean asked once they were both sitting.

“A little more than most,” Father Jefferson admitted. “We take in a number of orphaned children here. Boogie monsters are attracted to their vulnerability and their numbers.” Father Jefferson considered him from across the table. Dean wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t seem to find because he frowned at Dean before saying, “I don’t think you traveled all this way to talk about the troubles this Haven has been experiencing.”

“No,” Dean answered. “I came here to take you up on your offer for support.”

Dean watched as Father Jefferson seemed to both grow younger and older in that moment. Hope gave him wings, while the realities of what Dean was asking weighed him down. “To what ends? I have many loyal Hunters and followers in my Haven. They will commit themselves if I ask it of them. But they will want to know what they will face.”

Dean nodded and thought about his words before speaking. He wasn’t going to get a second chance to explain what he intended to do. Or what Castiel said he needed to do. “In the short term, I need hunters and psychics who can help me stop the Devil’s Gate from being opened.” Licking his lips, Dean drew in a deep breath before adding, “This is going to mean War.”

“War against whom?” Father Jefferson asked. “The Order was charged with protecting the world from Supernatural creatures.”

“An Official is going to try to open the Devil’s Gate,” Dean told him. “Demons can’t cross the Devil’s Trap I had rebuilt. And a human can’t open the Devil’s Gate. Even with the Key. An Official tainted himself with demon blood. That’s a sacrilege against everything the Order was meant to stand for.”

Father Jefferson looked away from Dean and out the window. The Attendants were still out in the gardens. A group of children had been brought out to play on grassy patch of lawn. Dean was quiet, letting the other man gather his thoughts and consider his choices.

Dean was asking him to draw a line in the sand. If he supported Dean it meant he was declaring war against the Order and his Haven and followers would come under attack when Dean was branded as a heretic. His followers would be in danger; his settlement could be taken from him or burned to the ground in a Cleansing.

“They’ll follow you,” Father Jefferson finally spoke. “If I tell them that I believe you to be Dean Winchester reborn, they will follow because of my belief in you.” The Priest turned his gaze to him and Dean had to fight not to flinch back from the faith he saw in the Priest’s eyes. “Some of them will believe you as well. But many of them will need proof.”

Dean nodded his understanding. The prophetic texts said that Dean would perform certain miracles. Those weren’t books that the general public studied, but they were all aware of the miracles. “Hey, Sammy,” Dean called out, taking Father Jefferson by surprise.

The Priest went white in the face when Sam winked into reality just behind Dean. “Hi,” he said to Father Jefferson.

“Father, this is my brother Sam.”   
  
  


  
****  


:::

  


In the end, six Hunters and two psychics left the Haven with Dean.

He had actually needed to refuse over a dozen others who wanted to come with them. He needed them to fortify settlement. Once Dean threw down the gauntlet they needed to have a strong, defensible base. The warding on the settlement was some of the best Dean has seen or felt in a long time, but they would only stop so much.

“I thought the Devil’s Gate was only a story,” one of the hunters said. Dean was pretty sure his name was Robert. Or it might have been Robb or possibly Bob. The only thing Dean clearly remembered about the kid was that he’d been named after Bobby.

They were tromping through the wild growth that had sprung up around the cemetery. “A lot of stories are real,” Dean called back.

Most of the hunters who came with him were at their prime. They had been hunting for a few years each and had survived not only with their lives, but with most of their sanity. Between the nine of them they might have enough sanity for one healthy person to live a normal life.

He had explained what they were going to be facing before they had even left the Haven. They all knew what they were going to be facing. A super charged human on demon blood. That alone had given both psychics the creeps. More than Sam following along.

“Castiel is waiting for us,” Sam announced, winked into existence in stride with Dean.

“Stop doing that!” One of the psychics snapped. Jo-Ellen, the only woman in the hunting party, was one of the most sensitive psychics in the Haven. She was the one who had placed and maintained the traps around the Haven.

“Sorry,” Sam muttered, shoulders hunching.

“The Wandering Brother will be aiding us?” Campbell asked. He was their other psychic and served as more of a backup for Jo-Ellen than anything.

“Yeah,” Sam answered.

“Does the Wandering Brother serve you?” Jim asked, curious.

They were all curious. And Dean didn’t have time to answer a bunch of questions about how the natural of order of things worked. “No,” Dean snapped.

“But the book -” Jim continued.

“Would you give it up, Jim!” Liam demanded. “Save your questions for when we make it back to the Haven. We’re in the middle of a hunt.”

Sam caught Dean’s eye and shrugged in response. The psychics had given Sam his own inquisition until Dean had put a stop to it. They had been curious about why he wasn’t haunting a physical place or thing until Dean had sarcastically remarked that Sam was doing a fine job haunting him at his own request.

They were saved from any more questions by Castiel stepping out from around a tree.

“Dean,” he said by way of greeting.

“Cas,” Dean replied. “Seen your Official yet?”

“No, but I have not been looking for him. This is meant to be your fight,” Castiel pointed out. “We are here for back up and support.”

Sucking in a breath, Dean pushed forward. “Then let’s not keep the bastard waiting.”

  
****  


:::

  


It was just like in his dream. There was a strong wind blowing through the cemetery. Over grown grass bowed nearly to the ground. The leaves were just the right shades of green in all the same places.

The difference was that Dean didn’t stumble on the gravestone and he wasn’t alone. He had six hunters advancing through the bush into the cemetery from different points. The two psychics were staying behind under the cover of the trees so Jo-Ellen could toss her trap and Campbell could put wards to limit the Official’s access to his ill gotten powers.

They were as ready as they would ever be.

Castiel had a shot gun pointed into the overgrown cemetery and Dean was armed with a hand gun and the Knife, which Castiel had given back to him. Sam was ranging off to his right. He could hold a weapon, but Dean had spilt his own blood at Castiel’s instruction to give Sam more physical substance. He still couldn’t be hurt, but at least he wasn’t a distraction and didn’t feel useless in the field.

Dean could hear chanting coming further ahead. The poorly pronounced Latin made Sam snort and Dean just pulled a face. Of course they would think there was some kind of ritual involved. It played into Dean’s plan at least. If the Official thought he had to complete some kind of ceremony before he could open the Devil’s Gate then all Dean needed to do was interrupt it.

When they were close enough that Dean could make out the man standing in front of the Devil’s Gate, Castiel and Sam peeled off to take up flanking positions. The Official was facing the Gate, leaving him no escape. The other Hunters would rush in at the sound of the first shots making sure he couldn’t get away.

Taking aim, Dean sighted the man’s back and pulled the trigger.

The chanting stopped and his target stumbled forward before turning around to face Dean.

“You are interfering in official Order business!” the man shouted to him. “I will have you brought up on charges if you do not leave this instant!”

“Not going to happen,” Dean shouted back and kept advancing. His gun stayed on his target. “I’m not going to let you open the Devil’s Gate. And I want the Colt back.”

“Who are you to make such demands?” the other man demanded.

“Dean Winchester.” It was the only reasonable reply to give. They knew that the Official wouldn’t believe a word of it, but Officials were schooled in all of the Winchester Gospels. The name alone would make the man hesitate before doing something stupid.

And it worked. Dean watched the aborted hand motion that would have sent him flying away. It was Jo-Ellen’s signal to cast her trap and bind his powers, as much as they could be bound. And Dean knew the instant the trap struck, the Official jerked a little when it hit and staggered a single step when it sprang.

“You speak heresy!”

Dean was close enough to make out the man’s features now. The other Hunters were closing in, and out of the corner of his eyes, Dean could see Sam and Castiel creeping closer. “Sorry to disappoint you,” Dean said conversationally. “But I am, and you aren’t opening that Gate.”

He pulled the trigger again, felt the recoil of the gun up his arm as he watched the Official’s head snap back before his body fell to the ground.

Everyone stopped moving then, waiting to see if the Official would get back up from the head wound.

Dean crept forward, keeping his gun aimed at the fallen body. Nothing was this simple.

When Dean was close enough, he kicked the body and nothing happened. Frowning, Dean stepped back out of reach and looked over to Castiel. “It can’t be that simple,” he said.

The former angel shrugged but didn’t lower the shot gun he carried. “The children Azazel tainted were given demon blood at a tender age. Perhaps the affects of the demon blood must grow with the individual in order to be harnessed fully.”

“Maybe,” Dean conceded. “What do you see Sam?”

Sam was kneeling next to the body, looking over the altar the man had set up in front of the Devil’s Gate. “I don’t recognize some of the symbols on the altar. But he has a blood goblet, Dean.”

“Only demons and angels can use the Goblet,” Castiel said frowning. He lowered the shot gun and stepped forward to take a look at the altar and collect the Colt at the same time. “I have never seen this type of Goblet before,” he added. “But it appears to have been recently used.”

“How can you tell?” Jim asked.

“It has a feel to it,” Castiel answered and didn’t elaborate. “Dean, we should complete this kill and burn the remains.”

“What about the rest of them?” Robert or Robb or Bob or whatever his name was, piped in.

Dean looked to the other Hunters then. Four of them had captives of their own, most of them gagged and held at gun point. Except for Michael’s captive, who had a knife pressed to his throat. They all had the pendants of Apprentices.

“You were with the Official?” Dean asked Michael’s captive.

The man sneered at him, but it didn’t last long when Michael pressed the blade a little deeper into his skin. “This was Order business. We have attended Official Lowry since his journey began,” he told Dean. “We will see you all brought before Justice for this murder and your heresy.”

“We should bring them back with us,” someone said.

“Someone cover for Michael. I need him to remove the Official’s head. We’ll burn the body and then pack it in. We’ll head back in the morning,” Dean told them.

  
****  


:::

  


  
**Seventeen generations after the world didn’t end:**

Dean had reached for his drink and Sam had reached over to stop him.

Such a knee jerk reaction for both of them. Sam had done it when he’d had a body, and he hadn’t stopped doing it after he’d come back as a spirit. The gesture used to make Dean stop for want of his brother’s touch, and then it made him stop because of the chill Sam’s touch left behind. Except this time...

They were both quiet and still, just staring down at where their hands touched on the table. Sam’s hand felt cool atop his own, but there was a weight to the touch, substance where there should be none. Sam was touching him.

Carefully Dean turned his hand under the cool weight of Sam’s hand. Dean slid his fingers between Sam’s and carefully applied just a little pressure. He might not feel the warmth of Sam’s flesh, but he could feel Sam’s hand, feel the knuckles and bones shift in all the ways Dean remembered.

And for just a minute, Dean was sure time had stopped. He could feel wild, reckless hope swelling in his chest, squeezing his heart tight and leaving a lump in his throat that made it nearly impossible to breathe. The expression on Sam’s face mirrored his own – hope and awe and amazement.

“I’ll find a way,” Dean promised just as the minute passed and Sam’s hand passed through Dean’s. The moment had passed, but the hope was still there.

  
****  


:::

  


 

 

 

 

  


  
[   
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:::

  


  
When they arrived back at the Haven Dean was surprised by the changes that had happened in only a few days.

A wall was going up around the settlement. Trees were being cut down in the surrounding area to build it, and keep strangers and creatures from sneaking up on them. Protective charms and wards were being etched into the wood and raised onto poles where the wall hadn’t yet been built. Lawns and yards had been dug out and planted for new gardens, and the settlement’s ancient well was getting a face lift and refitting to ensure they would always have a clean water source if they came under siege.

Every man, woman, and child was conscripted to fortifying the settlement in case of attack. Women were tending to newly turned gardens or cutting up fresh bandages. A few boys were herding a handful of cows through the streets, while girls were turning the center square into a giant chicken coop.

At the Church, Attendants were running supplies from one building to another while singing their devotions. Father Jefferson was directing the chaos at his Church from the front steps, his voice rising over the din of dozens of feet over the stone.

They had already delivered their captives to the local Justice to be jailed until they could perform a trial. And explaining just what had happened at the cemetery and why they had captives had taken up the better part of the morning.

Dean just wanted to sleep. And with the psychics loosening the wards enough to let Sam enter the Haven with Dean, Dean finally felt comfortable enough to actually rest in one of the little cells in the Church.

Dean waved at Father Jefferson as he entered the Haven and made his way to the cell he had been given while he’d been recruiting from the Priest’s flock. Sam followed him down the hall way, silent as always.

“It’s not over yet,” Sam said when Dean shut the door to their little room. “This is only one Haven. You’ll have to do the same thing at other ones.”

“Castiel is taking care of it,” Dean said. “While you were off checking out the wards and traps the psychics were putting up this morning, Castiel said he’d spread the word for us. We should get messages from some of the closer Havens in a few weeks.”

“Think it’s going to make a difference?” Sam asked sitting down on the floor.

Dean flopped onto the small bed and turned his head to watch Sam. “You’re the one who told me I had to do this,” he pointed out. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to doubt everything now.”

Sam smiled at him and laughed a little at that. “I’m not doubting you, Dean. This was the right thing to do. It was time you came out of hiding. It was killing you. I just don’t know if it’s really going to make a difference in the grand scheme of things.”

“Plan hasn’t changed,” Dean yawned and closed his eyes.

:::

He was climbing what felt like a vertical piece of smooth rock. But each time he reached up, Dean found finger holds to grab and pull himself up with. His feet found purchase to push him forward. The sky was clear and a blue so bright it hurt to look at.

He wasn’t far from the top, having dreamed himself half way up the rock face.

Looking up, Dean saw someone peeking over the edge of the cliff above him, waving and encouraging him on. He couldn’t make out the person’s face or hear their voice. Sometimes that’s the way the dreams worked. Sometimes it just wasn’t important enough to be included in the details. So Dean kept climbing.

When he was close enough to the top that he could actually see the ledge forming, the person at the top backed away to give Dean room to climb up, grabbing hold of his hand when he flung it over the edge and pulling him up to safety. Dean flopped on to his back and stared up into the sky, panting from exertion. It might have been just a dream, but Dean felt his muscles aching like he had actually climbed the rock face.

The sky was just as bright and just as blue at the top as it had been while he had climbed. A gentle breeze came, drying the sweat on his skin. Dean could smell spring flowers on the breeze and closed his eyes against the sky.

Rolling over, Dean pushed himself to his feet and took a good look around.

It felt like he was standing on top of the world, looking down at rivers and mountains and valleys, settlements and people, the few cities left in the world, and all the people in it. Nothing could touch him this high up. Even Sam couldn’t follow him to wherever he was. But he didn’t feel the press of wards or charms.

Turning, Dean came face to face with the person he’d seen encouraging him up the cliff side.

He was about Dean’s height though he had a more slender build. Black hair and eyes a brown so dark his pupils were lost in the irises. He was smiling, teeth flashing white in his mouth. He looked familiar, in a way that made Dean’s skin crawl. It wasn’t until he spotted the Mark on the man’s throat that made Dean take a step back.

The man smiled wider and offered his hand to Dean. “Dean Winchester,” he said, voice softly accented. “I am Cain.”


End file.
